


Paulie Nibbles Has Left the Building

by waveofahand



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hospital necking, Jane has a concussion and Paul is concerned, Jane seems a little jealous of John, Jane wants to bite things, McLennon (hints of), Paul reveals the name of his wang, Prescription drug high, Romance, She's also tripping balls on painkillers and Paul kind of loves it, Very much fluff, many many things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 20:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: In youth Macca was considered the randiest Beatle (a journalist told Lennon that "McCartney would f*ck a tree if it wasn't moving.") Here he is, trying desperately to control himself. In a hospital room. With nurses all around, and a very stoned Jane Asher trying to get his pants down.





	Paulie Nibbles Has Left the Building

**Author's Note:**

> With all the angst I've been writing, I needed to try "cute". I've never "gotten" the whole Paul/Jane relationship, because they seem a strange fit, but I respect that she's kept their private relationship private. Hasn't stopped me from imaging them having one night where they seem absolutely PERFECT for each other, thanks to Jane's hospital-induced high, which makes her mouth taste like gold and expressing an uncharacteristic fascination with various McCartney body parts.
> 
> As always, this is entirely a work of fiction and imagination. I do not own the Beatles or any of these characters and mean no harm to their reputations. They all seem like fine people.

 

**London, Near Christmas, 1964**

 

Jane shook herself out of a light doze and shot another look at Paul, who was not looking at her.

He was holding her hand. That was nice.

But he was looking at the doctor who had just hurt her a little while ago, and with that grave expression on his face, just like her parents.

Paul’s profile. So pretty! She let out a soft sigh in its general direction and wriggled down into the mattress, trying to get more comfortable.

That got his attention. He looked at Jane and gave her a sweet smile, putting a finger to his lips and winking as though to say he’d be with her in a minute. He just had to listen to someone else, first.

Figures. He was always going to be with her "in just a mo". Right after he did the things that had kept him so busy throughout 1964 -- and 1965 seemed like it might be even busier.

For both of them, if she was being fair. Neither of them ever seemed to have time to put the other first.

But he was here, now. And he’d shown up so quickly after Peter had told that she’d slipped on ice while Christmas shopping and was in hospital. He had put her first, tonight.

That was _nice_. Paul was so nice, floated the thought.

She heard the word concussion. “Light concussion” to be exact, and flinched a little as she recalled the sensation of having missed a step, or slid on ice -- of losing her footing, and somehow smashing full-on into the corner of a building. She didn’t actually recall hitting her head. She’d been too distracted by the feeling of her shoulder suddenly catching on fire.

Right now, she had a headache and every part of her body felt bruised, but they’d given her something a little while ago -- the cutest little pale pink pill -- and the pain was receding. It was making her mouth taste all golden. It sent happy little sparkles of fog around whatever she was focused on, so her mother, her father and Paul were all glistening like watery trophies all around.

“Restoring the dislocation was, of course, unpleasant for her. But she’s a bonny strong gell, isn’t she?” The doctor was looking in her direction now. She didn’t like him. The big Scot had hurt her when he shoved her shoulder back together, and now Jane wanted to growl at him, like a lion, but the sound she managed was more of a meow and everyone looked at her in concern. Probably because she was an actress, after all, and should certainly do better than that.

Paul was leaning down and murmuring, “Alright, love?” He skimmed her brow with the back of his fingers as he looked her over.

“We’ll keep her overnight, just to be sure, and likely send her home in the morning.”

“Ugh.” She tried that on for size and decided she still sounded like a kitten. “I want to go home!” she mewled, and her parents both frowned at her – but Paul didn’t. “Of course you do, sweet," he said, "but let’s treat this like an adventure, yeah?”

He was speaking to her very gently, as though she were small, and again Jane wondered if she was a kitten but she smiled when he added, “How ‘bout I stay with you until you fall asleep, Would you like that?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, raising his eyebrows to her parents and the doctor. “Can we do that?”

Margaret Asher, a formidable woman, raised an eyebrow. “Do _you_ want that, Jane,” she asked her daughter.

Jane nodded her head and then winced, and then giggled. “Yes, please…I’m a ginger kitty, now.”

“I expect she won’t be awake for very long,” the doctor said, smiling, “and then be sure we’ll monitor her every few hours, so there should be no problem. If Mr. McCartney wants to stay a bit, he may.”

Her parents accepted it, shrugging as they reluctantly kissed their daughter goodnight. Jane watched them disappear through a quickly spinning doorway as though they’d managed it every day of their lives. Her parents were such capable people!

“Hey, you,” Paul said, kissing her hand and smiling down at her once they’d gone. “Alone at last. You gave me a scare, sweetheart. How did you fall?”

“Can’t remember. Ice? I think my shoe broke. They gave me something. After they hurt me. They made my shoulder _scream_.”

“Aye, we heard your shoulder screaming along with you. Said a nasty word, it did, too.”

Jane frowned, trying to remember who had cursed. “My mouth tastes like gold.”

“I’m not sure gold has a taste, love,” Paul smiled, and she felt his weight on her mattress as he sat, still taking her in with a concerned look.

“Yes, it does,” Jane said. “It tastes like my mouth.”

“Ah, see, I knew we would have an adventure! Let’s see what gold tastes like, then!” Paul leaned in to kiss her lightly, as though he was taking a little sip of Jane between his lips. “Mmm,” he murmured in her ear. “Gold tastes like a girl with flaming red hair and pink lips,” another sip, “and with skin so fine it's almost translucent….and something else…what is that specific flavor?” He kissed her again, a little more deeply, and then sat back as he licked his lips and smiled. “Gold appears to taste like Jane, who will always taste like berries and cream, to me. I should call you ‘Berry’.”

“Mmm, no,” she shook her head. “That's too much like ‘Bunny' like John calls you. Why does John call you that, anyway?”

Paul barked out a laugh and did that lip-biting-blushing thing he so often did whenever Jane asked him about his partner. “Well, it’s because John’s a bit of a bastard, and all, and he knows I don’t like it. But it started because of my long front teeth,” Paul mimicked a hungry rabbit for her until Jane giggled, “and because apparently, I wrinkle my nose, sometimes?”

“You’re doing it now,” Jane laughed and then put a hand to her head with a wince.

“No, I ain’t,” Paul teased, wrinkling his nose. “You’re just high. You’re all drugged up, honey.”

“Yeah...I like it, though.” 

“Sure you do. I know I wouldn’t mind being a little toasted right now.”

“But it's making me thirsty..."

“Aye, it happens,” Paul said, knowingly. “We can fix that.” He put a glass of water to her lips, and lightly brushed away where she dribbled on her gown.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Paul’s eyes were lingering on Jane, studying her with appreciation, as though he hadn't taken a really good look at her in a while. “So pretty you are, Jane. I can’t think of anyone else who could look this good in a hospital gown -- like a Viking princess on the mend.”

“Well, I am a warrior,” Jane slurred, raising her voice. “Wounded in battle, sirrah, trying to find a Christmas gift you’ll like half as well as that bracelet.”

Paul was touched, and then actually surprised by just how much. “You're so competitive. And it's cute,” he kissed her again. “You should try to sleep now, baby, yeah?”

“No…” Jane whined. “If I’m a Viking princess, I don’t have to listen to you. I’m the boss of you.”

He should have known it. She was an actress, and she liked to play ‘let’s pretend’. Well, Paul was game. “Okay, bossy,” he grinned. “Command away. What can I do for you, my lady Jane, you want more water?”

“No.” Jane gave him an unexpectedly saucy look. “You know what I really, really want?"  
  
"No, love, tell me."

"I really want you to drop your trousers and let me look at your legs.”

Paul's eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “I’m sorry, do what, now?”

“Take off your trousers for me,” she smiled. "Go on. Stand over there and drop them, so I can look at you."

"What, right here and now? In your hospital bed and with nurses all around?" He helped himself to some of her water. Then he coughed, and sipped some more. "Perhaps later. You’ve seen my thighs before, love.”

“I know," Jane drawled as though her tongue was too big for her mouth. "But I never _understood_   your thighs until I saw them in the paper...and now I want to watch them. And I’m so…so high.”

“Indeed, you’re trippin’ balls, lass,” Paul laughed out loud, enjoying her mood immensely. “And just where did you see my thighs and have an epiphany, and suddenly come to comprehend them?”

“You were in Miami, I think? There were palm trees. And you’d gone swimming, and there was a snap of you, drying your hair and you looked so…like you. And your thighs were wet. Your thighs were all there.”

“I do generally try to keep them near me as I move about…”

“That's good thinking! Because I want to chew on them. You should bring them to me, now. Let a Viking princess bite your thighs.”

Paul ducked his head, rubbing his neck and doing his best to chase that image from his head. He thoroughly approved of the idea of Jane chewing on him wherever and however she might like, but her timing was lousy.

“I cut the picture out, you know…”

“Oh? For a scrapbook? Or to keep under your pillow?”

“No, no!” Jane managed a horrified stage whisper. “Imagine if someone saw that! No, I keep your thighs in the drawer for my knickers. With my knickers.”

Paul bit his knuckle and crossed his legs, unable to completely hold back a laugh even as Jane’s knickers on his thighs made their appearance in his mind. And chewing. This girl needed to go to sleep, now. But…her knickers. She had nice knickers, he knew. Lacy and sweet, and very huggy around her bum, which he loved to squeeze. Oh, God. And now her bum was in his head, too. It was getting very crowded in there, and Paul…well, Paul’s self-control didn’t always extend to keeping down The McSéamus, that lively Irish warrior who lived between his legs and had a bad habit of popping up at precisely the wrong times, all ready to engage with whomever was handy. Paul recalled a [particularly embarrassing televised interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dm8frWeoBA0) during which, thanks to John's wicked and intentional backstage summoning, the too-ready tyrant had refused to be subdued and made a pest of himself throughout the segment.

And here the restless little bugger was, in a hospital room, already starting to rouse when he had to know Paul wouldn't let him loose. That fellow was trouble, The McSéamus. Oh...trouble. A happy campaigner, for sure, but indiscriminate and often a bit too alert to any possible opportunity to make an advance. 

It was the fault of The McSéamus that Paul, knowing he needed to change the subject, couldn't resist flirting a bit more instead. “You know, Jane, sweet, you should maybe keep the picture in the drawer of your nightstand. That way when I’m not around, you know, you could um…look at my thighs before you go to sleep. Maybe be a little bit naughty with yourself, then, and help yourself off into a sweet dream, yeah?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "And then you can tell me all about it, when I call from the road..."

“I would _mark_ you.” Jane said, dreamily. “All over your legs. I’d bite you. I want to chew on you right there." Her eyes zeroed in on a spot high on Paul's right thigh and he swore he could feel a singe. "I'd brand you like a Viking princess would brand an Irish slave.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, looking straight at him. “A Black Irish one. With hairy thighs.”

Paul let loose a mild groan and began to regret offering to stay. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Jane’s forehead, noting she felt a little warm. He wasn’t sure whether it was due to the stress of the day or this surprising – in truth, rare and rather delightful – randiness she was giving in to. “It’s been a long day for you, my berry. Now is the time for all bossy little red-haired girls to go to sleep and get better. Okay?”

“Will you lay with me? Let me put my head on your chest?”

Paul considered. In truth, he actually wouldn't mind cuddling a little if that's as far as it went. “Yes, alright. But...hands off the hairy thighs, alright? If you know what's good for you,” he warned.

“I could squeeze ‘em a little, though?”

“Uh, no, Jane, seriously. Be a good girl, now.”

“I’m always good," she groused.

“Yes, love, you are, but, you have to be extra good right now, or I’m afraid things may… get out of hand -”

“Get into my hand!”

“Ah, ya filthy little flirt,” he gasped.

"What was it my mother always said when I got too excited..." Jane lowered her voice, doing a credible, if slurry, imitation of her mother. "' _Now, Jane, take yourself in hand..._ '"

“That is _always_ good advice by my lights," Paul agreed with a chuckle, "except in hospital when you're hurt." He kissed her forehead again. “I will lay with you, but you have to promise to behave, yeah? Come, on, I’ll sing you to sleep.”

Jane let out another kitten moan as Paul joined her fully on the bed, carefully avoiding the sling on her right shoulder as he put an arm around her and then helped her to lay her head upon him. “Oh,” she sighed. “That makes me dizzy.”

“Alright, love? Too much? Are you layin’ on your head bump?”

“No, just…” she put her hand on his chest, opening one button of his shirt and slipping her hand in to press against his skin. Jane sighed contentedly as Paul stroked her hair with a feather-light touch, not wanting to hurt her.

“You know," Jane mused with a pout, exactly as though she was about to say something serious, "I’ve never been marked. And I’ve never marked anyone.”

“Well, since you were only seventeen when we met, I’d hope not love,” Paul said with his Northman’s instinctive possessiveness.

“And I’ll be nineteen soon, and I’ve still never…” Jane tugged at his chest hair until he objected and tapped her fingers into behaving. “ _Why_ haven’t you ever left a mark on me, Paulie?”

 _Paulie_. She had never called him that, not once in all the time he’d known her.

It wasn’t fair, he thought, not fair that she had to be high to be this giddy, this natural and sweetly intimate with him.

Gnawing a bit on his middle finger like the most orally fixated man in England, Paul considered the girl now sprawling herself across his body so sweetly. In general, he liked the standard issue Jane Asher very much, but she was not a girl who had _ever_ wanted him to mark her with his teeth and his tongue, or leave any evidence that she’d been well seen-to in bed. Standard issue Jane was lovely -- sweet-natured and smart and posh -- but she wasn't always a comfortable fit for Paul, who still thought of himself as a scruff in a good suit and who had never minded getting a little down and dirty with a like-minded woman.

And then, of course, there was John...

Paul shook that thought out of his head as fast as possible and here he was helped along by Jane, who had taken his finger from his mouth and begun gently nibbling its tip between her teeth, because _this_  edition of Jane Asher seemed a more like-minded woman to Paul than she ever had before -- sexy and pouty and less exalted -- a little bit demanding, looking to be bitten, and to bite back, oh, yes.

He liked that. He liked Jane as a lady just a little slutty.

“We should ask the doctor what he’s given you, love. And the dosage. You’re a right goddess when you’re this relaxed…or this stoned…”

“Everything is sparkly," she agreed as she drew his finger further between his lips and bit down. "You should answer me, though, or I’m going to have to do what I know you don’t want. Except you do.” Jane meant to reach down and give a tug on Paul – she could see he was already quite tuggable -- before realizing that the sling, and her swollen shoulder, made that impossible.

“Oh,” she groaned. “Give yourself a little squeeze for me, would you, Paulie? I can’t tease you with my arm like this, and you need to be teased until you obey your princess.”

“What? No.” Paul sounded decisive about that. “I’m not touching myself for you, girl, unless you want another story to clip out of the paper. But I don’t think you’d like it: _‘Beatle sexes up famous innocent in hospital bed while nurses wander about’_ is not a good headline. And your father would quite rightly have my head.”

Jane chuckled – a throaty, sexy sound that was new for her. “Well, one of your heads, at least.”

“Ach,” Paul groaned and moved her gently off his shoulder, turning to face her. “Jane, love, I could eat you up,” he said intently. “I’d love nothing better this instant than to suck on you all over, and give you bunny-bites all down on that lovely long neck of yours, and then find a way to let The McSéamus romp on you without disturbing your arm or your bump, until you shiver all around me and fall asleep with a smile. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be a good idea right now, and right here. And there are rules about this sort of thing, anyway: 'Thou shalt not roger a girl when she's not in her wits'. Would be wrong. Downright sinful.”

“Aw, you brought The McSéamus? I miss the wee fella."

"Hey!" Paul objected with a chuckle. "Not _so_ wee! Clearly, the bump on your head is giving you memory problems. Or it's been too long.”

“It's been too long, Paulie...and yeah, he's not _so_ wee, I think. Not that I've had anything to _compare_ him to…”

“Nor will you, if I have a say,” Paul kissed her cheek. “Let's not tempt the lad to climb any further in his aspirations, aye? Change the subject. To answer your nagging question, love, I’ve never marked you, because you’ve never _wanted_ me to. I may be a randy old scouse but I'm a gentleman, you know. I haven’t dared.”

“Dare now…” Jane whispered.

“You're a terror, you know that? A teasing little...vixen? Is that the word I want? Aye, vixen it is. You’re a menace.”

Unable to help himself, Paul kissed her gently at her temple, and then behind Jane’s ear, and then along her jawline, finally bringing his lips down to that lovely space between her neck and shoulder (the place he loved being bitten himself, truth be told) and groaned as he resisted an urge to act like a bunny there, and get all bitey -- the bad habit that had spawned the nickname. “A red-haired menace," he added in a low voice. He wondered, absently, why he kept falling under the spell of redheads like John and Jane (although John's hair was more auburn wasn't it?), and for just a moment Paul held both of them simultaneously in his thoughts before he recollected where he was and sighed warmly near Jane's ear, "I can’t mark you now and have your parents thinking tomorrow that I’ve been mauling you, in your condition.”

“Mm," Jane gave a growly moan. "Let’s get married, then.”

Paul’s lips stopped where they were. He was afraid to move. Hell, he was afraid to breathe. Finally, he murmured against her skin, “We’re a bit young for that.”

Jane’s eyes were closed, and she was wriggling a little in his arms. “Let’s go get married and be farmers.”

Oh! She was just having another fantasy. Paul sighed in relief. Alright then, he could indulge that. "How about in Ireland,” he smiled, “Out in the wild west of it with the cliffs and the ghosts and all?”

“Noooo, Paulie, in _Scotland_ , with the Viking hoards,” she whined. “We’ll raise sheep and every night we’ll make babies and -”

“Every night a baby, love?” She was so stoned.

“Every night we’ll make babies," she repeated. "And we’ll call them all James. I do like that name, James…”

“It’s Séamus in Irish, you know.”

“No.” Bossy Jane was firm. “You cannot name your cock _and_ your children Séamus. That would be very wrong.”

“Very wrong, indeed,” Paul agreed. “And the girls, they’d all be James as well?

“We’d baptize them all Mary-Margaret, for our mothers.”

That did it. Paul’s heart shattered into a million pieces as he felt himself crash hard for this limited-edition Jane Asher. He took her face into his hands (gently, so gently, so as not to hurt her) and then kissed her with more tenderness, more humility, more simple respect and adulation -- more pure _feeling_ , full stop -- than he had in many months. Perhaps since the first time he’d brought her to bed, when he'd treated her at once like a china doll and an enchantress and it had been...beautiful.

Perhaps their relationship issues went both ways, then, Paul thought. Perhaps both of them needed to try harder, to put more real effort into deepening what was between them. He allowed that he hadn't always brought his best attention to Jane, and she could be the same with him. They were both ambitious, after all. Still, it would be so easy to fall, right now, to fall for this sweet, playful, bossy, thoughtful…

“Am I hurting you,” he whispered in concern, between kisses. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just keep holding me like that, and do it again,” Jane groaned. So, he kissed her at length, softly, slowly allowing the kiss to deepen until they were both moaning into it.

He pulled away, then. “We have to stop, love. I want you madly, but this is the worst possible way of it.”

She made a completely indecipherable noise. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, I am. My mum was a nurse. She’d never forgive me rattling your brain or shaking your shoulder, or getting your pulse and your breathing all a-tremble when what you need is quiet and rest. And your mother would have my guts for garters and nuts for the squirrels, too, in one slice.”

“Mmm, you have such a way with words, you know. Better than John, sometimes, because you're so mad-Irish. But it's a shame, though, Paulie. You have the _softest_ lips." Jane ran her fingertip over Paul's lower lip and he caught her finger and bit down sharply, until she squealed.

"What a tough guy. With such soft lips. That’s what your name should be if you become a mobster – ‘Paulie Softlips.'”

“Oh it’s a mobster I am, now? Well, mobsters don’t listen to Viking princesses, sorry.”

“This one will. Or they could call you 'Paulie Longlegs', too, that’s a good name.”

“No,” he wrinkled his nose at her, starting to trace both of her collarbones very lightly with his fingers. “I don’t like spiders. We make Mal kill ‘em.”

“Kiss me there?”

"Where, here?" He smiled at her devilishly, meaning just under the collar of her uninjured arm.

"Mmmm, please?"

He kissed her there, chastely at first, and then biting and sucking right at that spot, despite his own resolve. He stopped when he felt her tremble.

"There,” he whispered tightly. “Now you’ve a mark, just a wee one, right there. Happy?”

“It tickled. When can I bite your thighs, though?”

Paul licked his lips and shook his head at her, “You’re like a broken record.”

“ _Paulie Bitemark_.”

“You should sleep now, baby." He said the words, but he couldn’t quite pull himself away. Against every one of his good intentions, he was letting his fingers slowly brush down her the middle of her chest, kissing the spot just above her heart, and then his hand trailed off to the side, just grazing her breast, three fingertips gently skimming over her nipple – lightly, so lightly, until he felt it grow and pucker under his hand.

"You should stop me…” Paul's voice sounded husky, even to his own ears.

“Oh…” Jane gasped, and it was the sweetest sound. With her good hand, she pressed his head forward, felt him breathe all around her nipple through her hospital gown, warm and moist, then his tongue moving, lapping at her until she squirmed, and Paul, all undone, nipped at her with his teeth and then soothed her with his tongue. He could feel Jane’s hips pressing against him. He pressed back, and suddenly both were trembling.

“Seriously, Jane,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop.”

“No. I don't think I will...”

He groaned, his head falling to her chest. If she wouldn’t stop him, he’d have to stop himself. But God, he didn’t want to, especially since she was still moving, very carefully, against him, and he thought he was going to die for want of her.

Or The McSéamus would kill him for a traitor for his damned surrender to right morals.

“'Paulie Nibbles'.” Jane was murmuring. "That's your new name. I dub thee ' _Paulie Nibbles'!_ "

“Ah, don't tempt me, love,” he asked between gritted teeth.

“I love it. Nibble me some more?”

She was the devil’s own one. He understood it now: Jane Asher stoned was a seductress from hell, and if he didn’t get off of her this instant, he’d be consigned to flames of woe for being a rutting, nibbling bastard unable to control himself with a tiny redhead sporting a bump on her head, a tender shoulder and…probably very cute knickers under that gown.

With a growl that began somewhere around the roaring Isle of McSéamus and arose from his throat like the strangled cry of a saint who wasn’t sure that martyrdom was quite his choice, Paul pushed himself out of Jane’s bed, answering her objection with a firm look of warning, and a very deep breath. He shook his finger at her.

“Now no more of that, lass. You’re not yourself. Right now, you’re...God, you're like a siren all out of control – mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

“I love it when you're literary...” She was smiling at him, her eyes over-bright, either from arousal or exhaustion. Or perhaps both. Paul felt terrible about it, and urged some more water on her. He told himself to let Jane brush off the dribble, this time, but still found himself kissing her after she’d licked a lingering drop from her bottom lip and given him one of those looks. 

He broke off with a shuddery sigh and then lifted her chin, slowly, with one finger, and gave her a look that would brook no argument.

“'Paulie Nibbles' has left the building," he said softly. “And we can't let him back in, because he’s a very wicked lad too easily led about by his wee marauder, you know. And you’re a good girl who needs protecting. But you lay back, alright? I’ll stay until you sleep. _Paulie Goodfellow_ will hold your hand until you sleep.”

“Will he sing to me, then? Paulie? Paul McCartney is the best of good fellows.”

“Ah, now you sound like yourself, all posh and that,” he said, smiling at Jane but feeling just a little disappointed to hear a hint of normalcy in her. “And yes, love, I’ll sing for you.”

And as the clock ticked past midnight, Paul, having defeated the roustabout McSéamus for the moment -- finally feeling in control and ready to be a good fellow -- sat near his girlfriend’s hospital bed, holding her hand and singing an old Welsh lullaby sweetly into her ear. And he wondered, with real sadness, if he would see the like of her – of this evening’s particular side of her – ever again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
